Somewhere in the northern region of the Alcynia continent—where the nation of Iystoria lay far to the south—there existed a small hamlet within the borders of Lorvane. The place had no official name and barely appeared on any map of its own country.
At most, nine or ten houses stood there. In the center was a modest church dedicated to a god worshipped in that region's culture.
Around it were a few practical structures that kept the settlement functional: a small bakery, a basic medical hut, and a quiet, almost unnoticed smithy.
Snow laid over the entire area in a thin, uneven layer. Low hills surrounded the hamlet on all sides, forming a shallow ring that made the settlement look as if it had been placed inside a frozen basin.
Among the scattered homes, one stood apart at the far edge of the settlement—a smaller wooden cabin that looked noticeably worse than the rest.
Snow rested heavily on its log roof and had settled deep into the cracks of the wood. Bare trees stood around it, their branches stiff and pale with frost.
The wood itself had aged badly, darkened and softened by time. The roof barely held together, just strong enough to keep most of the ice and wind from entering.
The door had a lock, but it looked weak enough to break with a single hard strike. Inside, the floorboards were rough and uneven, worn by time and split in several places. Walking barefoot on them would likely tear the skin.
Overall, the cabin looked poorly built—more like a temporary shelter made by someone with little skill in woodwork than a house meant to last.
"Casimir, aren't you running late?"
Inside the cabin, a woman spoke in the traditional Lorvanian tongue. She sat on a makeshift woolen cushion near the fireplace, somewhere in her forties, the flames burning low and steady within the stone hearth.
Amber light swept across dark wooden walls. Metal tools rested nearby, plates arranged above the mantel in careful symmetry. The air carried heat, woodsmoke, and the deep musk of old timber.
She had dark golden-brown hair, ice-blue eyes, and pale skin with faint warmth in its undertone. Fine lines marked her face, though fewer than her years warranted. Her physique was small and slight, her limbs supple yet slender — like twigs that might snap under the wrong pressure.
She wore a long, dark fur-lined coat over a patterned dress, a wool shawl drawn across her shoulders, and a blue headscarf tied neatly under her chin.
"I'm not late, Мама, and I won't be."
A young man stood on the far side of the fireplace, checking himself in the mirror. Silver hair fell loosely across his brow. Snow-pale skin carried a faint redness at the cheeks — a permanent mark of the cold. A white scarf was wrapped high at his throat. He wore a long pale coat, cut clean at the shoulders, with three small silver stars pinned above twin red ribbons at his chest. Dark trousers and high boots completed the winter uniform.
At his right waist rested a straight steel sword, just under a meter in length, double-edged and tapering to a fine point. The hilt was wrapped in white cord, the guard minimal, the scabbard pale and reinforced at both ends.
He turned from the mirror. "...Actually, I can't be late. Not today." He crossed the room and lowered himself to one knee before his mother, clasping both hands over hers. "Today is the final examination. After this, I will graduate. And don't worry a bout anything, it's well within my reach. As always, I'll top the academy."
She smiled softly, something between assurance and pride, and reached up to ruffle his hair with firm affection. "I know, my little prince. I have always been proud of you. Give it your best, but don't push yourself past too much. Your mother is always praying for your success."
He smiled, with both his lips and his eyes and spoke quietly. "I know. I know. Thank you, for everything." He held her hands a moment longer. "Once I graduate and get a contract, we'll leave this place. We'll move somewhere decent, somewhere with proper medical facilities, and you'll finally get the care you deserve. So please, take care of yourself until then. For me, Мама."
"What are you talking about?" She straightened with mild offense. "I am perfectly fit and healthy. You make me sound like some frail old woman. I can still walk the ridge above the tunnel without breaking a sweat."
"Haha... I didn't mean it like that. I know you're strong." He rose to his feet. "Where else would I have gotten my resilience? From you, obviously. I'm your son."
She tilted her head with a knowing look. "And speaking of being my son — once we've settled somewhere new, I want to see you properly courting someone. Make sure that someone is a girl."
"Мама." He gave her a slow, sigh look. "Let's not start that conversation right now. There are far more pressing matters to deal with first. Okay..." He stepped toward the door, pulling on his coat. "I have to go, or I'll miss the only morning train." And waved goodbye at his mother.
"When you return, I'll make your favourite roasted potatoes and soup."
CREAK.
The door swung shut behind him. The moment the latch clicked into place, his smile flattened and expressions became grim.
"You're in this condition because you were once courted too, Мама," he murmured under his breath.
He walked with straight posture and measured strides, not a trace of warmth remaining in his expression.
'Thanks to the talent I was born with, I was able to hold us above water — to push through every obstacle, to master the sword, to earn a place in the academy. Without that, there was nothing for us here. We were abandoned and left to rot. We were destined to die slowly and without dignity.'
He glanced down at the sword resting at his hip, and his grip tightened around the hilt.
'Now there is only one thing worth thinking about. Winning. And crushing every obstacle that comes in my sight.'
"Morning, Casimir!"
He raised his gaze. A dozen meters ahead, a man was approaching along the path — slightly past middle age, shorter than average, with a stocky and weathered build. His face was half-buried in a thick black-and-gray beard, his head patchy where the hair had begun to thin, a broad bulbous nose visible even from a distance. He carried a loaded pack on his back and waved as he drew near.
"Where are you headed this early?"
"Morning, Mr. Pétrøv. The academy, as always."
"This early? The sun hasn't even fully risen."
"I didn't know you have dementia too."
The man blinked, then let out a short laugh. "Haha — ah, my fault, my fault. I forgot, the only morning train to the academy runs at this hour. Quite the commute you manage every day." He studied Casimir's expression for a moment. "You know, it's better to joke or taunt while showing some suitable expressions. Otherwise people will just think you're being rude." A pause. "...Never mind. How's the sword I forged for you?"
"You mean, White Coffin?" Casimir glanced down briefly. "As sharp and refined as its maker."
"Are you mocking me?" Pétrøv chuckled again. "Ha. Anyway — I'm coming straight from the wayside station. The train's already arrived. You'd better move."
"Already?" A flicker of something crossed Casimir's face. "I see. Thank you for telling me." He began walking faster.
"One more thing, Casimir."
He paused.
"Since you're in a hurry, I'll keep it short." Pétrøv's voice shifted, dropping its lightness. "Don't take the ridge path above the tunnel to cross the hill. Something isn't right up there. People have been disappearing — at least, that's what's being said — and I think it's connected to some of the missing residents from the settlement. I'm telling you only because you sometimes use that route. A precaution taken early is better than a threat faced unprepared. Just a word of advice from your fellow master."
"Understood." Casimir gave a single nod and moved on at a trot.
By the time he reached the station, the last traces of night had been scrubbed from the sky, though no sunlight had yet broken through the grey. The train sat idle on the track. He moved toward it without breaking stride and stepped up onto the boarding platform.
A hand stopped him.
"What is it?" He turned.
A man in shabby, worn clothing stood behind him, holding a spade, his face half-obscured by a large hood drawn low over his brow.
"You can't board the train." His tone was flat and unhurried.
Casimir frowned. "What do you mean? Why not?"
"The train won't be departing today. So there's no point boarding it."
"Huh!" His frown deepend. "Who are you? And why won't it depart?"
"I've been newly appointed to this station. The train arrived this morning but developed a mechanical fault. It won't move for at least a day."
'What in the...' He exhaled through his nose. 'I shouldn't take a stranger's word at face value, but it does appear the train isn't going anywhere soon. I'll have to use the tunnel. If I move quickly enough, I can still reach the academy in time.'
He stepped off the platform and turned toward the tunnel entrance.
"Sorry, sir." The man's voice followed him. "The tunnel is also closed today."
Casimir stopped. "Closed or blocked?"
"Blocked. Investigation officials sealed it last night. You won't be able to pass."
"It was open yesterday." He raised a brow.
"Crimes don't adhere to schedules." The man replied.
'What could have happened out here — in a settlement this remote — that warranted an official investigation? I don't particularly care, but I can't simply take this man's word and abandon the day. If it's blocked, I'll find out for myself when I enter the tunnel.'
"Where are you going? I told you — it's blocked."
"If it is, I'll turn back. Mind your own work." He reached the mouth of the tunnel and felt the cold air bleeding out of the dark.
A hand landed on his shoulder — heavy, wide, firm.
"We apologise for the inconvenience." The voice was measured and authoritative. "But compliance with the protocol is required, for your safety as much as for ours."
Casimir turned. A tall, broad man stood behind him, built like a trained soldier. He wore a dark blue uniform bearing the insignia and flag of the Lorvane Nation, a visor cap shading his eyes, white gloves on both hands. There was something in the bearing of the man — something in the weight of his voice — that made refusal feel structurally unsound.
"Thank you for your cooperation." The officer gave a short, formal bow and walked into the tunnel.
Casimir stood motionless, staring into the dark passage. His hands closed into fists at his sides.
Then suddenly bolted towards it to enter but the moment he was about to step in, he felt an inauspicious dread making him froze for a moment and cursed inwardly.
'So, no train and no tunnel.' He looked up at the ridge climbing above the treeline.
"No choice, then." He exhaled and turned toward the hill. "If I hesitate any longer, I won't make it."
He rushed through the ridge the above the tunnel.
The slope rose sharply, and the forest closed around him as he climbed. Most of the trees stood stripped bare, their pale branches splitting the grey sky above. Others were patchy — a handful of stubborn leaves still clinging on. A few stood fully dressed, dark green boughs bent low under the weight of shallow snow.
'Mr.Pétrøv said something unusual is going on up here. He might be right.'
He kept moving, eyes sweeping the tree line out of habit.
'But I sense nothing threatening at the moment. That changes nothing, only a fool drops his guard because a place feels quiet. Still, people disappearing from an isolated settlement this size doesn't follow any clean logic. If they were being moved, the town ahead would account for them. Movement in and out is tightly regulated there, watched carefully. So they weren't moved out. Which means they're still here somewhere hidden but even that's no easy task to execute without coming under village's patrol.'
'I see, yeah, maybe the two people that disappeared from the village must be patrolling and maybe…'
He paused in thought.
'Maybe they're simply dead rather than getting abducted.'
A moment passed.
'Either way, it has nothing to do with me... Maybe, they all have died rather than getting abducted. I don't care if every last one of them vanished.'
Suddenly, a chill ran through Casimir's body. It felt as if an intense precarious gaze had fallen directly on him. However, he couldn't see anything abnormal around.
The sensation was unfamiliar, thus, hard to interpret.
He kept walking, though his pace slowed slightly. His eyes narrowed for a moment before opening again.
'I shouldn't ignore it,' he thought. 'But the mind often creates things that aren't there—especially when it's tense.'
'So...I am afraid?'
"No. Definitely not."
'Then here must be something abnormal but i have a feeling I need to avoid it at any cost.'
Casimir increased his pace, his movement accelerating sharply as he crossed the uneven terrain of the hills, passing through the dense landscape faster than any normal traveler could manage.
By the time he reached the academy, the sprint had left a trace of exhaustion in his body. His breathing was deeper than usual, though he kept his face composed, careful not to show it.
He sat alone on a wooden bench in a dim corridor, resting briefly. From the far end, bustling voices like shuffle of a crowd and the occasional clatter of equipment were seeping in the corridor. He watched the light and motion gathering there with side eyes.
"Casimir Morozov!"
Then a call echoed down the corridor. Casimir stood immediately, stretching his arms and rolling his neck once before moving forward. Moments later, he stepped out into the open arena.
Hundreds of students—most around his age—stood around the arena in loose clusters. At the far end, several older figures who appeared to be faculties and senior officials, sat on a raised platform, observing the scene like judges presiding over a spectacle.
In the center stood a lean, hardened man in a black-and-white tracksuit, holding a microphone. When he noticed Casimir entering, he set the microphone aside and gestured for him to step forward and take his position for the duel.
As he entered the arena, something shifted in the crowd. Not dramatically — just a subtle change in the atmosphere. Many of the students watched him with restrained attention, exchanging whispers instead of speaking openly.
'They all see me more like an emotionless monster than a human. As if I give a shit about that. They believe I have no feelings, but the truth is I feel everything—anger, grief, ecstasy, frustration, hopelessness, sympathy, disgust, even vengeance.
But feeling something and being ruled by it are not the same.
Just because my heart has gone cold doesn't mean those emotions vanished. I froze them myself. A heated metal bends easily at slightest pressure while a cold one holds its shape even under hard strikes. That is why I chose to freeze my heart. When it is cold, no sweet words can tempt it, no expectations can burden it, and no disappointment can shake it. My path is mine alone. I walk it and will keep walking with perseverance, without hesitation, without regret.
The world is full of people drifting wherever their emotions push them. I refuse to be one of them.
My heart can't even be dented by weaklings like you, no matter how much you hammer it.'
An opponent stepped into the arena wearing pretty much similar uniform as other students, and carried a longsword. Without reluctance, he took an offensive stance, blade angled forward.
From the faint whispers around the arena, Casimir could sense the mood clearly, that is pity. Not for him, but for the boy standing across from him.
Today marked the final phase of the final-year examinations: the dueling trials. These matches would determine the students' final ranks, and with those ranks would come their future opportunities—contracts with the national military, private combat divisions, or the more exclusive and dangerous research expeditions.
Dueling opponents were assigned according to their Overall Scholastic Score Average (OSSA), to keep the matches fair by pairing students within the same range of performance and ability and then further ranking them among those scores. In principle, being in the same scoring bracket meant being in the same tier of capability.
Yet being in the same range of score, all eyes were feeling unfair for the guy in front of Casimir.
In the next moment, the overseer in tracksuit in the arena raised his hand and glanced between the two fighters, silently asking if they were ready.
Both remained still.
The overseer dropped his hand.
The duel began.
SCUFF!
Without hesitation, the other student lunged forward, his longsword cutting through the air in a swift arc toward Casimir.
In the next instant, the blade was less than half a foot from his neck.
THUD!
Casimir moved.
Without flinching, he seized the attacker's sword arm and twisted sharply with the motion. In the same breath, his leg snapped back and drove a brutal kick straight into the boy's solar plexus. The impact echoed through the arena, the force of it rippling through the ground around them.
The attacker's body folded instantly. The sword slipped from his hand as he collapsed, breath knocked from him, his mind barely conscious.
"Halt. Step back." The overseer stepped forward immediately.
Administrators moved in, assessed the downed student, and helped him off the floor between them.
"Casimir Morozov — winner." The overseer announced it without inflection. Examiners made their notes at the far end of the arena.
The duels continued in steady rotation. Each time Casimir was called forward, the result was the same — clean, swift, and ending it in one or two blows. He didn't drew White Coffin, it remained sheathed.
'They all have talent… but no guts.'
One opponent rushed him and paid for it when Casimir's elbow slammed into his back, nearly folding his spine.
'None of them can even push me enough to make me draw my sword…'
Another tried to overwhelm him with speed. Casimir caught the attack, twisted his arm, and dislocated it with a sharp, brutal motion.
'Except…'
A third came in with a desperate swing, only to collapse when Casimir struck his neck with a precise hand blow, knocking him unconscious.
'Him.'
STEP!
"Been a while since we sparred sincerely."
A figure walked into the arena wearing a long black hooded outfit instead of the academy unifrom, the hood drawn back. His ash-blond hair fell loosely around his face, and there was something effortlessly noble about the way he carried himself.
He stopped a few steps in front of Casimir and an inexplicable calm smile appeared on his face.
"Hasn't it… brother?"